Our own Neros are

fiddling while the world

burns. What can we do?

~

Fling open the gates

and embrace the Visigoths

as they rush in to plunder.

Bitter arctic winds

place an exclamation point

upon protracted autumn.

~

And yet we’re warmed by

the spontaneous kindness 

of strangers, family, and friends.

In your poetic

opinion, which nursery rhyme

best describes these times?

~

 “He stuck in his thumb”

seems like the modern model

of ill-gotten gains.

Where, oh where, has my

fellow poet gone? Where, oh

where  can he possibly be?

~

Gone to the city

to prevent the deranged from

committing atrocities…

Fetch Rocinante,

would you, Sancho, my good man?

This windmill needs much tilting!

~

Perhaps if it were

tilted, it wouldn’t go round

in circles and things might change.

Ever hopeful, we

wait and watch. Will folks turn out,

vote sanity in?

~

If we must rely

upon the electorate

we may be disappointed.

That rekindled blaze

in her, once sallowed, spirit

speaks to quality of life.

~

Seeing the return

of vibrancy enlivens

 all who grieved its loss.

Single sentinel

Stiffly stands at attention

Guarding garden greenery

~

Weathered and worn, as

are so many that stand guard,

hoping to protect what’s green